Wednesday, December 29, 2010

I haven't been able to bring myself to do this until now,and am not entirely sure what prompted the action this night (early morning,actually). It all happened so fast and it seems as though the past almost-two months have been one long agonizing day.

But Halfglassistan carries on. Just with all flags at half-staff. And regular operations suspended indefinitely.

Never doubt that all glasses remain half-full. In fact, only half-full forevermore. But also never doubt that Mr. J left the best half remaining.

I have plenty to say, just not the strength to turn any of it into coherent thought. And though my best muse may no longer be by my side, he is still with me.

Today is LIVESTRONG Day.Why today? It's a cancerversary. On October 2, 1996, Lance Armstrong was diagnosed with advanced testicular cancer, and before he knew whether he would survive, he started his foundation to fight cancer.

Friday, August 20, 2010

HALFGLASSISTAN, USA, August 20, 2010 — Be on the lookout for missing mojo. HRH Princess Snarkerella reports it was last spotted approximately two weeks ago. She added it may have been missing for at least three, but no more than four weeks. When pressed, she acknowledged it sometimes slips away without her noticing.

Cat Con, Snarkerella's official press secretary, stated: "This is the longest we've noted mojo's absence from Halfglassistan. However, we have no reason to believe it will not return. Be assured that we do have a transfusion protocol ready to implement, if necessary." Con went on to say that all citizens of Halfglassistan are in good health, and all non-reporting operations have been continuing without interruption.

If mojo is spotted, please advise the authorities as soon as possible via suitable communication channels.

Over the past year, there have been few things that I could count on unconditionally, so those things on which I could rely became very precious. One of those things was a little red dot. Day after day, week after week, month after month, very little in Halfglassistan was certain.

(Kinda the whole point of founding this little land of mine. If you're new in this parts, I recommend starting here and taking a look around. I promise that for every anxiety expressed, there's equal or greater happiness to be found.)

That little red dot, though, was a constant. A simple indicator that a message was waiting became so much more. A reconnection of three high school friends quickly evolved into a sisterhood whose story was being written in Facebook message threads. Seemingly random subject lines give no clue to the content within. We write of our pasts and our presents, of laughter and love, of tears and triumphs — and most importantly — how all of those have become intertwined.

Tomorrow after months of virtual hugs and hand-holding — and 25 years since the three of us have shared oxygen — my sweet SPG and CVZ are arriving in Halfglassistan.

And if you just read my post and took just a moment to care about people who may have forgotten, or never knew, how to take care of themselves but so desperately know that there is a light, somewhere, if they could only find it — then thank you for that.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

One hello says a million words, and can scare a million hearts for a million different reasons. That's why millions of people in crisis may never — no, will never — pick up a phone, too scared, too pained, too absolutely unable to even speak. Too afraid of the voice on the other end. Will it be judgmental? Dismissive? Perky and dripping with misguided "but-you've-got-so-much-to-live-for"? Or worse yet, bored?

Please vote — and soon — by clicking any of the links in this post, and you can help someone be able to say "I'm alive," because they sought and found help, and didn't follow the dark shadows in their hearts.

I know. Because even though I once followed my dark shadows, thankfully they didn't win.

I'm alive.

The Kristin Brooks Hope Center is a non-profit organization founded in 1988 after the tragic death of the founder's wife, Kristen, by suicide. From the beginning, Reese Butler and the Hope Center have been dedicated to suicide prevention by providing easy access to a large network of crisis line workers, while helping to break down the stigma and other barriers to accessing help and hope. For more information, visit hopeline.com.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

I love the Fourth of July, and can always find a reason to celebrate. A reason, that is, beyond the Army-brat-infused overwhelming pride of all things red, white and blue. Reasons as simple as a bright sun in the sky, a cool drink in my hand and the promise of a firecracker night.

I love the Fourth of July. This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show.

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress:

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking, "Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.)and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know).

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why.

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn.

I'd tell them: "Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

Monday, June 28, 2010

Tilly here, liveblogging from CCW's summer annex. Otherwise known as the kitchen, which is approximately 15 feet farther away from the sun than the winter quarters. Otherwise known as the room above the garage, which is approximately 1.5˚ warmer at any given moment.

It is a most comfortable change of pace. We are turning dreams into ideas in cool comfort. Dad is but a glance away, we're watching the Gamecocks in Omaha on the big TV, sipping on ice-cold tea and generally delighting in our consummate cleverness.

This migration of CCWHQ to the first floor also marks the fulfillment of a particular dream of mine. I've longed for a cozy perch from which to observe the magical feats of food on these kitchen counters. A spot that would allow me to be ready to jump in and assist at a moment's notice. (I've always thought I'd make a fine sous chef, given the chance.)Et voila! — Not only do I have a cushioned chair on which to keep vigilant watch over the foodstuffs, but also one with wheels to spirit me from table to counter to refrigerator (ah! do I dare?)!

Upon further inspection, however, it seems the bounty that has Mom so excited holds absolutely no thrill for me:

When we got older and suspected that his answer, while clever and sweet, might have been a simple way to deflect an unanswerable question, we asked again.

Same answer. And we were clever enough to discern he meant what he said. Satisfied, we stopped asking.

And, we didn't need to ask. We never did.

My father never gave us any reason to think there was anything wanting in his life. He taught us to love what he loved. To love how he loved.

My love of words and knowledge and adventure all come from my father. I don't remember a day when I couldn't read, didn't have a question forming in my mind or didn't want to explore whatever it was I saw around me. I don't remember a time when I wasn't surrounded by books, didn't have a desire to wander through a museum or didn't want to see for myself the things that other people only saw in pictures.

My father taught me how to read by reading to me. My father taught me how to learn by learning with me. My father taught me how to appreciate everything around me by not hiding his wonder in everything around him. My father took me to libraries, museums, zoos, parks and landmarks large and small throughout America and Europe, and I seek them out for myself now. Because I want to. I have to. It's in my blood. It's in every breath I take.

My father taught me how to love by loving. Unconditionally. And I can't elaborate on that, because there are no qualifiers. It simply is what it is.

I could, however, elaborate endlessly on everything else my father taught me — and perhaps I already do. Everyday. Right here.

I am, in fact, a tomato snob. I would rather go without than eat a sub-par, off-season, mealy, refrigerated (oh, the horror!)sorry excuse for my beloved red globes of joy.

This morning, Jamie and I went to market. I now have a ceramic bowl on my counter overflowing with tomatoes in various stages of ripeness, just waiting to make me happy. This is not an adult-acquired taste, but rather one cultivated at an early age in the dark, black soil of the Calumet Region of Northern Indiana.

My sweetest childhood memories are of gathering that day's vegetable yield from my Papa's garden. Snap beans, green onions, peppers, radishes, zucchini, and more would be plucked from their plants, each selected by Papa's knowing eye. The tomatoes, however, held no mystery. I knew exactly which were ready to pluck, which were salvageable from the ground, and which would be ready tomorrow. Best of all, I knew which ones would never make it across the yard and into the sink for washing. Those were carefully wiped with Papa's handkerchief and handed to me. They felt firm but tender in my hand, and with the warmth of the sun, I think I imagined them pulsing with life. I would lift them to my face with both hands. Mouth open as wide as possible, I'd bite the fragile skin and feel the fruit explode in my mouth, laughing and slurping as it squirted everywhere.

I close my eyes and can still feel the hot black earth between my toes, the calloused skin of Papa's hands, and the sun on my skin. I smell a comforting melange of dirt, onions, and pipe tobacco. I hear the whir of dragonflies, chirping of birds, the creak of a screen door, and Nana's voice call out, "Reg!"And I taste heaven.